A snippet:

In a place like Berkeley, it takes guts for anyone, whatever their politics, to admit that they care about Israel. If their politics are progressive, if, like the J Street U people, they explicitly oppose both the occupation and the Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions movement, one of the voters in the Jewish Student Union decision may take the trouble to denounce J Street in the Northern California Jewish newspaper as “anti-Israel” and, perhaps most damning, not “part of the mainstream Jewish community.”

What remains unclear is why, when Jews in Berkeley boycott fellow supporters of Israel, they believe that they are doing Israel, or the Jewish people, any good.

Does the Berkeley vote truly reflect the kind of community that Jewish students at the University of California want? An intellectual ghetto, walled off from debate, bricked up against nuance, a trompe l’oeil of democracy, of openness, of communication?

American politicians looking to burnish their pro-Israel credentials are threatening to punish the Palestinian Authority, the UN and even third-party countries over the Palestinian application for membership in the United Nations.

At J Street U we’re demonstrating to Congress just how many pro-Israel students – deeply concerned about Israel and Palestinians, peace and democracy – oppose cutting aid to the Palestinian Authority with Fund Peace, our campaign to Ensure Israel’s Security and Support Palestinian Civil Society.

Take Action
The Posters
The Postcard
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Take Action: Tell Congress to Fund Peace

Click here to tell Congress: Say no to cutting Palestinian aid.

Posters for Peace

Click to download posters with compelling facts and figures compiled from prominent American and Israeli journalists, think tanks, officials, and government agencies.

Download, print and distribute Fund Peace posters to get out the word and show our elected leaders that pro-Israel, pro-peace Americans stand with Israelis and Palestinians in support of Palestinian aid.

The Postcard

Click here to download the Fund Peace postcard. It says:

Dear Representative,

Some in Congress are demanding an end to all aid to the Palestinian Authority. I am writing to ask that you stand with Israel, Palestinians and peace by ensuring that this important aid continue.

US aid is to the Palestinian Authority is crucial in ensuring Israel’s security. The U.S. Security Coordinator for Israel and the Palestinian Authority testified that cooperation with the United States has made the PA security forces into a “trusted, capable partner” for the Israeli security establishment. In fact, the Shin Bet (Israel’s equivalent of the FBI) concluded that cooperation with U.S.-trained PA security forces helped make 2010 the most terror-free year in a decade.

In addition, US aid supports Palestinian civil society: roads, hospitals, schools and infrastructure. United States funds have led to the construction of 64 km of roads, 153 classrooms, ten schools, two large water systems and are responsible for the creation of over 140,000 days of employment for Palestinians in the West Bank. Revoking such support would have destructive results on the population that depends on it — and would bolster extremism.

This is why I am asking you to Fund Peace. Ensure Israel’s Security. Support Palestinian Civil Society. DON’T CUT AID TO THE PALESTINIANS.

Update Your Profile

Set this image as your Facebook profile picture to show your friends and family that you support funding peace.

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We had two drivers on our trip – for the first few days a rowdy and loud Israeli, for the second a quiet Palestinian from East Jerusalem. Throughout the second half we said little to our Palestinian driver as he wordlessly accompanied us to unrecognized villages in the Negev and meetings with activists in Ramallah. Much to my own embarrassment, and I think I can speak to others in our group, he remained largely ignored, perhaps in part to the eccentricities of our first driver up north and perhaps in part to our own inability to engage with this particular aspect of Israel. His other tour groups, most of whom have been American, would have known him as Elian, just as we did for most of our trip. From West to East Jerusalem, to Ramallah, to Hebron and its southern hills, down to Be’er Sheba and back up to Tel Aviv, this is what we called him.

His name, however, is Jihad.

Maybe I should back up a little bit and let you know how we came to know his real name.

Our time in Jihad’s (Elian’s) bus concluded with our arrival in Tel Aviv. At that point members of our group realized we had never spoken to a man who, as a resident of East Jerusalem, was in fact the focus of many conversations we held in his presence.

As we huddled around him outside the Nalagaat Center (Center for the deaf and blind in Tel Aviv-Yafo), the man we knew as Elian dutifully informed us that all good stories start with a bang, a tsfatsat. The explosion: his real name, Jihad. Elian was his family name.

Jihad Elian went on to explain that his boss didn’t allow him to use his first name. While a pragmatic course of action for a Palestinian who drives many Americans through Israel and the Occupied Territories, this omission was nothing less than revelatory to us.

His name had been given to him after his mother’s six day labor, a holy struggle indeed. He told us of how his mother hopped a border to be with his father when they were caught on separate sides of Jerusalem after the war of ‘48. He told us he has a son and another child on the way, and he doesn’t want them to grow up under the same sense of war that has clouded his life. He spoke of the casual racism he has become accustomed to on the job, some which we witnesses at a checkpoint. He told us that he wanted peace.

But what he said next hit each of us. He told us he was proud of us. He had been listening and watching our group for a week, coming with us to villages, dropping us off in Silwan and driving us during our daily debriefs on the bus. And he was proud of us. He was proud that we were trying to learn about the issues, about his life and the lives of his neighbors, family and friends. Most of his tours visit the tomb of the patriarchs and matriarchs in Hebron, but sidestep the occupation next door. They see the City of David, but don’t see how this archaeological dig is suffocating an entire neighborhood. They are terrified of having a Muslim bus driver, which is why he lets people assume he’s Christian.

Jihad also reminded us of a truth that many of J Street U have already come across: he told us “it’s hard to swim against the current.” He foresaw the backlash that we would and have already received from our greater community. For me, his recognition and appreciation of our precarious position within our own communities gave me another, stronger reason to stay fighting for this cause, despite its often difficult social consequences. Because if a resident of East Jerusalem can see our own struggle as American Jews, than we in turn must see his.

The heart of this inexorable conflict is more than religion or land, its human lives and human dignity. It’s seeing the “other side” as more than an enemy, as people with similar struggles and desires.

I leave you with this last piece of wisdom from Jihad Elian, which could serve as summary for my own conclusions as well: Peace will inevitably necessitate concessions from both sides, from both religions, but there is no alternative.

Samantha

Samantha Kaufman
Middlebury College ’12
June 22, 2011

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Visiting the Holocaust Memorial in Israel, also known as Yad Va’Shem, is always a deeply moving and draining experience. Despite the emotional difficulty of going to Yad Va’Shem, I think it’s extremely important that everyone see the memorial at least once in their life. The memorial is unlike any memorial in the world. Everything from the location, to the structure of Yad Va’Shem has a unique and complex purpose. The name “Yad Va’Shem” in Hebrew means “memorial and name,” which evokes the fact that the people whose lives were destroyed by the Holocaust were not simply the numbers tattooed on their arms by the Nazis; they were people with their own lives, talents, family members and aspirations.

The memorial sits atop Mount Herzl, overlooking the rolling hills and red roofed buildings that characterize the stunningly beautiful city of Jerusalem. The structure of the building comes to a point at the top, representing the fact that the Holocaust cut through the heart of the Jewish People like a saw, creating an eternal scar in the Jewish Psyche.

As one exits the memorial, the grey-stoned walls of the building extend outward to an incredibly beautiful view of Jerusalem. The message implied is, in part: “the disaster of the Shoah demands the sanctuary of this beautiful land.” One reason why Yad Vashem is so moving is that, located in the heart of Jerusalem, it reminds all of us why a homeland for Jews is such a necessity in the world.

And yet of course there is a second lesson: That we as a people should grapple with injustice and racism whenever it rears its ugly head. And as we stood in awe of the beautiful view in front of us, our tour guide pointed out that just beyond the beautiful hills we were mesmerized by was the Occupied West Bank. I couldn’t help but feel troubled by the fact that just beyond this alluring view of Jerusalem, was a looming occupation that threatens the very existence of the State of Israel, this place to which I feel such a deep connection and commitment.

This point would be driven home several days later as we traveled into the Southern West Bank. For while Yad Vashem reminds me why Israel so is so important to me, it also reminds me that Jews have an obligation to stand up and speak in the face suffering and injustice. Walking through Hebron, one of the largest cities in the West bank and home to the only urban settlement in the territories, is to stare into the dark space between these twin commitments. I love Israel in part because I know from our history that Jews need a place to be free; I cannot stand injustice because I know from our history what it means to not be free.

This is a fine line to walk: comparisons between Nazi policy during the Third Reich and the policies of the occupation are, to state the obvious, morally offensive and practically indefensible.  When such a comparison is made we have a right and a duty to challenge it forcefully. At the same time, our history leaves us as a people sensitive to certain conditions of oppression, even when such oppression is committed in the name of a protection and security that very history reminds us is crucial and necessary.

As we entered Hebron, we passed a Jewish settlement where our guide Mikhael Manekin, co-director of Breaking the Silence, has often been subjected to harassment. After clearing the front gate, our tour bus stopped directly in front of the Tomb of the Patriarchs, a place where three crucial biblical couples are buried, all of which are important to each Abrahamic faith. The site has been holy to Jews for thousands of years, and until 1929 and the Muslim riots that erupted throughout then-Palestine, Jews lived in the city alongside their Arab neighbors.

After going through security and entering the Tomb, we discovered that this religious site, much like they were in Jerusalem, was completely separated; Muslims had their space, and Jews had theirs. Mikhael, a practicing religious Jew, could not accompany us into the Tomb for fear of serious harassment or attack.

As we left the Tomb and began to move through the city, we were immediately confronted by two Palestinian men who kept trying to sell us bracelets and key chains. However, as we moved a few yards farther into the city, the two men immediately stopped following us. The reason behind their sudden departure from our group was that they were legally not allowed to set foot on this particular street.

The current policies in Hebron has effectively created a completely segregated town. As a result of the Hebron accords of the late 90s, the city is divided. While most of the city appears like any other major Arab city and is under the authority of the PA, the Jewish settlers live in a part of the city that is under Israeli military rule.  In 1997, at the time of the accord, there were 150,000 Palestinians living in the city, 120,000 in H1 (the portion under PA authority) and 30,000 in H2 (under Israeli military rule). Today much of H2 appears as a “ghost town” given that so many Palestinians have left their homes.

This policy of separation is most obvious along the major road through H2, Al Shuhada street. While many of the roads in H2 are restricted to Israeli cars only, Palestinians are allowed to walk on foot. On a major stretch of Al Shuhada street, however, right alongside the major settlement, Palestinians are not allowed even to walk. Due to their inability to utilize the street in which the front of their property sits, Palestinians who live along this street are only able to come and go from their back doors. Most of the Palestinian buildings we saw had caged windows, the result of repeated violence by the settler community residing in Hebron.

The inability of Hebron’s Palestinian residents to leave through their front doors was disturbing but the most upsetting aspect of the “ghost town” was the offensive graffiti plastered on the front of these peoples property. As we walked through the deserted portion of the city, we saw graffiti that said, “death to Arabs” and other slurs. The most common piece of graffiti was simply the Star of David, which was painted on almost every piece of property we passed.

Perhaps the most eerie experience of all in Hebron was the stark contrast between what we had seen in H2 and what we where about to see in H1. The barrier between the two sides of town consisted of two heavily armed soldiers and a makeshift checkpoint where one passes through a metal detector. Immediately after passing through the checkpoint, one is confronted with a bustling Palestinian city complete with cabs, shops, music and an overwhelming amount of people. The best falafel I had during my visit to the region came from a small vendor just inside H1. As we walked through the shopping area of H1, we noticed a metal grate above our heads which had cloth draped below it, the purpose of which was to prevent the settlers – some of whom live in apartments that face out onto a road that is in H1 – from throwing rocks as well as sewage on the people below, a sadly routine occurrence.

The harsh policies in H2 grow out of the legitimate security concerns that stem from the realities of a settler population living in a highly dense Palestinian city. Tensions escalated in Hebron after radical settler Baruch Goldstein murdered 29 Muslims in the early 1990s while they were praying at the tomb of the patriarchs. The policy of separation grew more strict due to fears of retaliation.

Since then, Hebron has been the site of many of the most vicious attacks on Israelis, including an ambush of soldiers during the second intifida, during which a friend of Mikhael’s was killed. And those attacks would likely begin immediately if current policies were to end. As Mikhael put it, “If Shuhada street were opened tomorrow, there would be a terrorist attack tomorrow. This is as benevolent as this can be done. Which is why there is no military solution to this conflict. Only a political one.”

The stark contrast between the two parts of the city makes one wonder, “If Hebron weren’t under occupation would the “ghost town” be populated much like H1 is? And if so, considering the settler population nearby would there be violence if the streets were to be opened?” The simple answer to both those questions is yes. The “ghost town” would certainly be a bustling city much like it is in H1 if the occupation were to end, and if the streets running through the “ghost town” were opened tomorrow there would likely be terrorism against the settler population and the soldiers.

And yet that reality can cloud the ethical and moral outrage that the city has become. How would we react if we were subjected to a constant barrage of humiliation and embarrassment? What would we say if we weren’t allowed to use our own front doors to go in and out of our homes? What if our homes were painted with graffiti that represented a deep hatred toward our people? We must also ask ourselves how we would feel if it were our son or daughter who was killed by Palestinian terrorists while they were serving their country? All these questions make one question the validity and practicality of a continued occupation of Palestinian land.

Walking through Hebron reminded me just how untenable and unsustainable the situation has become. Hebron is a Palestinian city.  Huge chunks of it cannot be ruled by the Israeli military in the service of protecting less than a thousand Jewish settlers.

As noted in the beginning of this reflection, the Jewish People have a special prerogative in today’s world: to not stand idly by in the face of injustice. After seeing Hebron, I’ve been forced to grapple with my own conception of morality and what it means to be a just and righteous human being. It is painful to recognize that the policies in the West Bank do not fall within my conception of a moral framework, that I feel a particular obligation to address them given our peoples history. That outrage must be tempered with an understanding of the violence that has provoked these policies. But the complications and complexities and nuances of this conflict cannot cloud us to what we know in our hearts is wrong, unjust, and morally indefensible.

I came to Israel knowing that the continued occupation of the West Bank hurts the prospects of maintaining a Jewish and democratic state, but in Hebron I realized it also goes against everything I hold to be noble and descent. I cannot reconcile my own morality with the subjugation of another people, under any circumstance or for any reason. Ending the occupation will require tremendous sacrifice, and preventing extreme violence in Hebron demands evacuating the settlers. This means uprooting human beings. It means admitting that despite the importance of Hebron to our history and the fact that Jews lived in Hebron for thousands of years, peace demands that it be a city under Palestinian sovereignty. These are hard choices.

I return, however, to the lessons presented by Yad Vashem. The legacy of the Holocaust, our people’s darkest chapter, requires that we have a sanctuary and a refuge and a place of our own. But it also requires that we recognize that every person, whether they are Jewish or Palestinian, has their own unique story accompanied by their own unique hopes and dreams. Today, we must be reminded of both legacies: preserving Israel as a Jewish homeland demands bringing into existence a Palestinian state by its side. Living up to the particular ethical and moral values and obligations we inherit from our history demands the same.

Cole

Cole Eastman
DePaul University ’11
June 20, 2011

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Throughout our trip so far, a reoccurring theme has been the tension between injustice and inequality perpetuated within the occupied territories and injustice and inequality within Israel proper. This tension was perhaps most evident in regards to gender issues.

At the Knesset we met with MK Orit Zuaretz, much of whose work focuses on issues of gender equality. At J Street’s national conference this year, MK Zuaretz took part in a panel about the role of women in ending the conflict. During that panel, she spoke about how men and women come to the conflict from different perspectives: men approach it from a military standpoint and women approach the issues from a civil society standpoint. MK Zuaretz stressed that both perspectives are necessary to achieve lasting peace and that women are integral to such peace and security.

Yesterday we met with Ayad Morrar, the protagonist in the documentary Budrus, which chronicles his struggle to protect his village’s land from the separation wall. When I asked Ayad what the role was of women in the non-violent protest movements, he spoke of the significant influences women have on fellow protestors and on the IDF. Ayad described how the response of the IDF to the protests is different when women take part in the protests and how the men of the village believe they must be braver than the women, thus the bravery of the female protestors inspires the men to even greater acts of courage.

While women’s voices are often the loudest when it comes to ending the conflict, the same cannot be said when it comes to gender inequality within Israel. Many people don’t realize that, in the year 2011, there are segregated buses in Jerusalem. My sense of wonder at seeing the Kotel for the first time was greatly tempered by my outrage at the gender inequality I experienced there. The women’s side is one-third the size of the men’s and while the men can wear talit, hold the Torah, and pray as loudly as they want, I can’t wear my talit, hold a Torah scroll, or pray aloud at this spot so central to our history and tradition. Instead of being able to sing and dance with other women, I must stand on a chair and peer into the men’s side to get a taste of the celebration that should occur upon arriving at the Kotel.

Luckily, there is hope. There is hope for ending the occupation, given that women such as Sara Beninga from the Solidarity Movement and Manal Tamimi from the village of Nabi Saleh are leading non-violent struggles against the occupation. There is also hope for change within Israeli society thanks to women like Anat Hoffman, the head of the Israeli Religious Action Center, who are raising awareness about segregation on buses and gender inequality at the Kotel. Whether we are examining issues of justice, democracy and peace within Israel proper or delving into these matters in the occupied territory, the voices of women – as victims of injustice and agents in addressing it – constantly remind us of the challenges that pervade this land and the hope that springs from it.

Emily

Emily Koppel
University of California-Berkeley ‘11
June 20, 2011

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After removing the tefillin from my arms and head at the Western Wall, the religious man who assisted me smiled and welcomed me “home.”

Home? My home is Montclair, NJ, and St. Paul, MN during the school year. How can Israel be my home if I don’t live there and if this trip is my first time there?

The V’Ahavta, which I read with tefillin on, remind me. “Set these words, which I command you to this day, upon your heart. Teach them faithfully to your children; teach them in your home and on your way, when you lie down and when you rise up.”

Since God sent Abraham forward to the Promised Land, his descendants have shared an undeniable and prosperous connection with the Land of Israel. Officially or unofficially, recognized or not, the Jewish people have a claim to this land. While the Palestinians we met with throughout the trip challenged the way in which that claim is used to justify actions of the state, all recognized the Jewish connection to this land.

So how is it exactly that I can be welcomed “home” to Israel?

Walking through the streets of Jerusalem, I engage in an intense form of people watching because in this city, in this country, everyone looks like someone I know. I can’t believe my eyes; I think I see my grandmother, and my cousin, my little brother, my mom when she was my age…

I am related to these people not only by looks, but also by the thousands of years of persecution and immigration that have separated us. I share a common history with every Jew in the world.

In Israel, I am home. But many factors are threatening my right to call it that. Ruthless acts of terrorism kill Jews that could be distant family. Some extremist terrorists believe it is their duty to destroy the Jewish people and our state.

At the same time, my desire to call Israel my home is strained. My home that is Israel is jeopardizing its future with its treatment of its neighbors and inhabitants that, although unrelated by blood, are our equal partners in their own struggle for a homeland.

How can I be part of a home that violently confiscates Palestinian land, raising Israeli flags over red-roofed settlements, claiming pride in the unjust treatment of Palestinians? How can I be part of a home that allots its citizens certain rights based on their race or religion?

Israel is our home, but the reality is that it not only ours. For me to feel safe there, I need to share it with the others who wish to prosper in their home and professional lives as we do.

Details of a two-state solution have been in the works for decades. I want to see a responsible solution to this conflict not only for the sake of peaceful coexistence and secure borders, but because it is my duty as a member of this homeland to see it governed as my forefathers would have wanted, in the name of God’s commandment to pursue Tikkun Olam.

Throughout the J Street U trip I never once questioned my love of Israel. What I did question was the ways in which I want to see Israel change so that I can proudly and safely love my home.

There won’t be an Israel if discourse remains polarized. Listening to others strengthens and challenges one’s personal convictions. Over the course of this trip I have heard a multitude of different voices from Israeli MKs to nonviolent Palestinian activists to my amazing peers on the trip. I return home with a profound understanding of the importance of pluralism, along with a drive to advocate for Israel so that I may return to Israel and without reservation call it my home.

Noah

Noah Westreich
Macalester ’14
June 18, 2011

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Today, like each of our days, was incredibly challenging. We began the morning in the spirit of our trip; seeking to achieve a greater understanding of the unending complications of Israeli society, today, with a focus on our collective memory of the Shoah, the Holocaust, and its implications. To do so, we first traveled to Yad V’Shem, Israel’s Holocaust museum.

The name of the museum comes from the biblical verse, “And to them will I give in my house and within my walls a memorial (yad) and a name (v’shem) that shall not be cut off,” and with its dual function as a museum and a memorial, Yad V’Shem is true to the name. Through images, artifacts, and testimonies, the museum becomes a memorial to the victims and survivors of the horrors of the Holocaust. The museum itself is designed to transport the visitor through this narrative. Through a one-way path, one wanders from room to room, utterly overwhelmed by everything portrayed within, unable to turn and go back, each space physically descending as the exhibits demonstrate the progressively lower points of our darkest period. The path only begins to ascend toward the very end of the sequence, as the war comes to a close and liberation finally arrives.

The experience of visiting Yad V’Shem is undeniably powerful. Although my fourth visit, it felt as if it was my first, indeed, the reactions of our group members were immeasurably strong, regardless of a range of familiarity with either the Shoah or Israel itself. So yes, this was a challenging experience emotionally. Grappling with the pure pain we saw confers upon us a heavy weight. Made even more difficult by the way the museum ends. At the final point, the walls that have served to pin the visitor in give way to an absolutely stunning view of Jerusalem. Described by a member of our group as a pair of arms thrown wide, the memorial, and so our history, seems to offer us the solution in the State of Israel. Yet, as we drink in the view and accept its promise, we are unwittingly accepting its conflicts and complexities; the breathtaking view includes the neighborhoods of East Jerusalem and the West Bank.

Thus, the relationship between the Holocaust and the State of Israel is a tricky one, in that we often tiptoe around the subject, knowing that the state is justified by so much more, but easily brought into the mentality that the relationship is entirely causal. In trying to wrestle with this muddy subject, we met with famous Holocaust scholar and historian Amos Goldberg later that afternoon. Yes, Goldberg spoke with us about the horrors of the Holocaust, but our discussion was much more about what we do with the collective memory of those horrors. He talked about that weight. He suggested that, though the fears made prominent in our thinking by the Shoah are not at all unfounded, we are privy, by witness, to the powerfully positive combination of understanding and responsibility that accompanies the burden. Rather than use those memories to sow more fear, he suggested, our victory over oppression now gives us the opportunity to motivate positive change.

This discussion certainly began to clarify the muddiness, but I still felt at a bit of a loss. Throughout my life, I have indeed seen this mentality put into practice; I have always been proud to belong to a people who have been at the forefront at every civil and human rights movement, who use the countless stories of our own oppression to push for the release of others from theirs. Yet, something stops us in our own backyard. All day it baffled me; in every other situation, our survival of the Shoah has been our motivation for real reform, but when issues of subjugation come up in regard to the Palestinian population, we cling instead to the flip side of that weight, to the terminology and imagery of fear.

I was not alone in faltering at this point in the process of understanding; perhaps it’s the reason for all the tiptoeing. Yet, through the discussion and debates of our powerhouse group, I have come as close to comprehension as I think I can.

The day was not just challenging in that it was difficult, it actively issued us a challenge. This responsibility seems to be framed by Hillel’s famous three questions, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?” Our challenge seems to be to appreciate the need to be for ourselves, the element of justification that legitimately links Israel and the Holocaust; to fulfill the responsibility to those beyond ourselves, using our sense of righteousness to move from fear to motivation when dealing with Israel’s very real and serious flaws; and to know that the window is closing and our time is now.

Aliyah

Aliyah Donsky
Princeton University ’14
June 17, 2011

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After staying in a hotel in Jerusalem the last five nights and exploring the old city, the Mahne Yehuda shuk and both sides of the city, and traveling through the West Bank to Ramallah, Budrus, and Nabi Saleh, it was only fitting that our experience in Jerusalem conclude at the Knesset. The Knesset is the heart of Israel’s democracy, the institution that guarantees for all Israelis freedom of religion, freedom of expression, and equality under the law as inscribed in Israel’s Declaration of Independence. While the Knesset for the most part has succeeded in creating a strong, vibrant democracy within the boundaries of pre-1967 Israel, the Knesset has also created many of the policies that perpetuate the occupation, which gives to the Palestinians who live under it far less rights and protections than those accorded to Israelis on both sides of the green line. Over the last several days of our trip we have all been challenged to navigate the waters between and within these twin realities.

On arriving to the Knesset, it was overwhelming to stand in the main hall where historic figures such as David Ben-Gurion, Golda Meir, Menachem Begin, Anwar Sadat, Shimon Peres, Yitzhak Rabin, and Bill Clinton once stood to address the members of Israel’s parliament. Overlooking the main hall is a large photograph of Theodor Herzl. I couldn’t help but think, gazing at the photo of one of my political heroes, that were Herzl alive today, he would be troubled by the direction Israel is headed. Herzl envisioned a secular society where Jews and Arabs coexist peacefully, with both sides helping to improve the quality of life of the other.

Exploring Israel with J Street U has shown me how far we have come and how far we still have to go to realize Herzl’s vision. Seeing Herzl’s picture within the Knesset is powerful – for his dream of a state for the Jews is of course today a reality.

On the other hand, the occupation threatens so much of what I find beautiful and inspiring about Israel. This was perhaps most clear to me during a visit to the Palestinian village of Nabi Saleh, north of Ramallah in the West Bank. It was disturbing to hear the villagers talk of steadily growing settlement near their village, which renders land they have farmed for generations inaccessible. Their weekly demonstrations against the land-grab are illegal according to the military rule in Area C, which comprises 60% of the West Bank. Many in Israel harshly condemn the demonstrations as riotous, and in part with some justification – stone throwing is not uncommon. Yet it was undeniable that the basic civil rights we take for granted – freedom of assembly, for example – are simply unavailable to the people of Nabi Saleh and other Palestinians who live in Area C. I could not help but think, looking upon Herzl’s image, that the stories we had heard the day prior would have proven deeply troubling to him as well.

At the Knesset, J Street U was privileged to meet with three Members of the Knesset, Orit Zuaretz and Shlomo Molla from the Kadima Party and Nitzan Horowitz from Meretz. In our conversation with these Knesset members, all agreed on one issue—the importance of J Street and the American Jewish community having an open and honest dialog on Israel. Each MK spoke about how in the past, the voices of the American Jewish community were only coming from one side of the political spectrum, and that the attack by right-wing Israeli and American groups on J Street is counterproductive and contrary to Israel’s true interests.

Although it was refreshing to hear that these three Knesset members recognize the importance that J Street has in the American Jewish community and within Israeli politics, it was disappointing and upsetting that Israel’s Prime Minister, Foreign Minister, and Defense Minister have consistently refused to meet J Street delegations that came to Israel. It is difficult to understand why the government thinks it is in the best interest of the State of Israel to ignore and delegitimize the voices and concerns of an organization that is committed to ensuring Israel’s Jewish and democratic future by working to achieve a two-state solution— an agenda which Netanyahu’s government also supports, at least in word. At a time when Israel faces real internal and external threats to its legitimacy and its existence as a Jewish and democratic state, it is unfortunate that a “witch hunt” is taking place amongst Jewish Zionists to prove who is the most “pro-Israel.”

We left the Knesset reflecting upon the challenges that the state and the Jewish people face. It is far easier to criticize and delegitimize those whose views you disagree with than address facts on the ground that present such a profound and troubling set of choices: perpetual occupation, one single state, war, or the difficult compromises required of a two-state peace.

But this is not the time where Jews, whether in Israel or in the Diaspora, should be excluding other Jews who believe in Herzl’s vision yet disagree in its implementation. There has been far too much discussion of what litmus test each individual person must pass in order to qualify themselves as being “pro-Israel,” or which organization is within the “pro-Israel tent.” It is time that both Jewish Israeli society and the Jewish Diaspora realize that there is nothing incompatible between celebrating Israel’s democracy and condemning Israel’s occupation of Palestinian territory. Indeed, only by forcefully condemning the latter can we preserve the former. Only through a two-state solution that ensures that the Knesset is responsible for defending Israel’s democracy and not the lack of it we saw in the territories will Israel become the beacon of light amongst the nations we all dream it to be. Far from betraying Herzl’s vision, struggling for such a future is inspired by it.

Gary

Gary Benedix
University of Florida ’11
June 20, 2011

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“Attaining real political change in Israel is not going to be about writing the most brilliant op-eds in our newspapers. It is not going to be about gaining the support of esteemed academics and other respected authorities. It will be about meeting real people where they actually are. It will be about forging connections with the people who will be our neighbors for a very long time.”

As it goes, the person who told our group that on Shabbat afternoon wrote one of the more brilliant op-eds that I’ve read about the conflict. About a year ago, Assaf Sharon joined with a fellow member of the Sheikh Jarrah Solidarity Movement in a daring response to Elie Wiesel, whose unassailable moral standing often shields his political perspective from critique. Wiesel had appealed to President Barack Obama not to place pressure on the Israeli government to end settlement construction in East Jerusalem. By Wiesel’s description, Jerusalem is the place that defines Jews’ connections to one another. Its status as the holiest of holy places in Jewish tradition gives it a kind of exemption from political questions. Jerusalem, Wiesel wrote, “is above politics.”

In his response to Wiesel, Assaf wrote: “Our Jerusalem is concrete, its hills covered with limestone houses and pine trees; its streets lined with synagogues, mosques and churches. Your Jerusalem is an ideal, an object of prayer and a bearer of the collective memory of a people whose members actually bear many individual memories. Our Jerusalem is populated with people, young and old, women and men, who wish their city to be a symbol of dignity—not of hubris, inequality, and discrimination. You speak of the celestial Jerusalem; we live in the earthly one.

“For more than a generation now the earthly city we call home has been crumbling under the weight of its own idealization.”

On Saturday, we began our day looking out on the East Jerusalem neighborhood of Silwan. Our lookout point was Ir David – the City of David – one of the most significant and well-visited tourist sites in all of Jerusalem. There the ancient city of David was built, lying at the foot of the Temple Mount and what is left of it today – the Western Wall. There are different narratives about what is happening in Silwan, and specifically about why it is one of the most violent places in all of Jerusalem.

Jerusalem was introduced to me a couple of years ago as a celestial city of gold. I have learned all throughout my life that this place is the anchor of my history and embodies all of the aspirations of the Jewish people.

It was, perhaps, because of my education that what is happening in Silwan was so difficult to comprehend. Despite my most diligent reading of those who have tried to depict Jerusalem in all of its earthliness, what is happening in Silwan did not register. As we would learn from Juwad TK, the director of the Wadi Hilweh Information Center, Silwan has become one of the most violent places in all of Jerusalem. Hundreds of the 55,000 residents of Silwan have been made “former” residents of Silwan. The remaining residents live under constant threat of a revocation of their residency status if they leave their houses for extended periods of time. A student who wishes to attend university in Jordan or the United States or France, for example, can lose the ability to live in Israel altogether if s/he elects to study outside of the country for more than the three years allocated him by his temporary resident status.

Moreover, settlement construction has bit right into the heart of the neighborhood. Settlement activity and the archaeological project of the City of David has proceeded with little regard for the residents of the neighborhood – to the contrary, settlers and archaeologists, rather, have trampled on their neighbors.

This is disorienting. It leaves me with a dilemma. What is my connection to this city – this anchor of my history that is not nearly so clean as I had thought? As I saw for myself, Assaf is right – Jerusalem is not above politics. In fact, it is the manipulation of politics that allows for the cruelty found here. What does it mean to connect to an Israel that is neither idealization nor abstraction?

I cannot deny that there is something that remains resonant to me in Elie Wiesel’s version of Jerusalem. Before Shabbat came to a close, we met with the historian and committed Zionist Gil Troy. Professor Troy pointed to one such point of resonance: “STOP!” he said. “And listen to the beautiful silence of this city.” It was the 4 pm on Saturday of Shabbat, we were sitting in the quiet veranda of his home studying the Jewish people and Zionism and the city slowly rose around us to its normal bustle. It was moment of wondrous peace. Perhaps it is this weekly magic that inspires Wiesel’s commitment to Jerusalem and the State of Israel.

But Jerusalem, like so much of Israel, remains a work in progress. My connection, as it stands now, is forged at the point of promise of what Israel might become. It has not yet arrived.

Ben

Ben Elkind
University of North Carolina
June 22, 2011